Fyodor Dostoevsky. Idiot (№ 204891)

Why do I your nature, your Pavlovsk Park, your sunrises and sunsets, your blue skies and your setovaniya face when all this feast which has no end, started with one I found for extra? What am I in all this beauty, when I every moment, every second should and compelled now know that even this tiny fly that buzzes about me in the Sunny ray, and that even in all this Banquet and chorus participant, the place knows the owl, loves it and happy, and I am one miscarriage, and only my cowardice until now not wanted to understand it!